Three

 1999 ~ 9 years old

The crackle of fireworks echoes around her, a distant, mocking symphony to Annabelle’s hunger. It’s the Fourth of July, but the festive cheer feels like a cruel joke. While other families spread blankets on the park grass, their laughter mingling with the bursts of color in the sky, Annabelle crouches behind a gas station, scavenging for scraps.

A gnawing emptiness consumes her, a hunger that goes beyond the ache in her stomach. It’s a hollow space where warmth and security should be. Her fingers, stiff despite the summer night, dig through the greasy layers of a discarded trash bag.

The stink of stale beer and cigarettes fills her nose, clashing with the sweet, smoky scent of fireworks. Finally, her hand closes around something a half-eaten burger, the wrapper sticking to the cold, congealed patty. It’s stale. It’s pitiful. But she doesn’t hesitate. She devours it in desperate gulps, the taste of processed meat a luxury after days of nothing.

A sound snaps her out of her focus, footsteps, close and hesitant. Her heart leaps to her throat, fear rushing through her. She knows what comes next. Disgust. Pity. Indifference. Judgment.

She turns, body tense, ready to run. But it isn’t a disapproving adult who meets her gaze.

It’s a boy.

He stands a few feet away, bathed in the flickering glow of a sparkler. The tiny flame dances in his wide, curious eyes, giving him an almost otherworldly look. He’s Black. His clothes are clean, a jarring contrast to her own grime-stained ones. His posture is confused, not hardened by the need to hide.

Annabelle’s suspicion flares, years of neglect teaching her to expect the worst. But the boy does something she doesn’t expect.

He kneels.

Without a word, he sets a small white plate on the ground in front of her. A scoop of potato salad sits on it, humble but deliberate. His gaze stays steady on hers, no pity, no judgment.

Then, as silently as he arrived, he steps back, leaving her alone with the offering.

The aroma of the potato salad, faint but savory, lingers in the air. Her stomach growls, loud and painful, a reminder of how empty she is. She hesitates, torn between suspicion and a hunger that drowns out everything else. Then, finally, she reaches for the plate.

She eats slowly, savoring each bite. The creamy texture, the mild tang of the dressing it’s a revelation. The first real food she’s tasted in days.

The next day, the world feels a little less cruel. The sky looks brighter, the fireworks seem less like mockery. Annabelle sits on the curb, watching neighborhood kids chase each other with sparklers, their laughter sharp and bright against the night.

Then he appears again.

“Hey,” he says, his voice soft, his smile cautious but kind.

She recognizes him now, Jesse Monroe. The one who always smiles at everyone, no matter who they are.

He stands in front of her, sparkler in hand, the sparks hissing and popping like tiny stars. His expression is gentle. No pity, no revulsion. Just simple curiosity. “You want one?” he asks, holding it out to her.

Annabelle stares at it. Such a small thing, a sparkler. A flicker of light that will burn out in seconds. But to her, it feels like more. A kindness. A tiny crack of light in her dark world.

Her fingers, always clenched, twitch. When was the last time someone offered her anything without wanting something back?

Slowly, she reaches for it. The sparkler’s glow bathes her hands in warmth, its light catching on the dirt smudges and the rough patches of her skin.

Jesse’s smile grows, as if this small moment means something.

"That's my mom and dad. And my little sister, Missy," Jesse says, nodding toward a group not far off.

Annabelle follows his gaze. His family. They’re laughing, talking, faces lit with a warmth she’s never known. His dad gestures wide, his voice booming with easy joy. His mom listens, eyes bright with affection. His sister small, with pigtails that bounce when she moves — tugs at their mother’s skirt. His mom bends down, kisses the top of her head, her touch so gentle it makes Annabelle’s chest ache.

She swallows hard. The lump in her throat rises, thick and painful. The scene feels like something out of a storybook too perfect, too far from her world.

Jesse looks at her, as if he feels it too. “I’m Jesse. Jesse Monroe.”

She hesitates, then finds her voice, soft and small. “I’m Annabelle.”